


Falling to Pieces

by williamspockspeare



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Alternate Ending, Angst, But He Gets Better, Canonical Character Death, Episode: s02e05 Amok Time, Grieving, Hurt/Comfort, I tried to write angst but then it devolved into fluff, M/M, Many vulcan headcanons await, Singing, basically I wanted amok time but sadder and then gayer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-15 17:48:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19300708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/williamspockspeare/pseuds/williamspockspeare
Summary: What if, upon discovering he had killed his captain, Spock refused to leave Jim's side?(A rewrite of the end of Amok Time)





	Falling to Pieces

Suddenly, it ceased.

Air rushed into his lungs, its coolness alerting him to the fact he was no longer trapped within the oppressive heat of the fever.

Slowly, and individually his senses returned. First, smell. That of smouldering embers, and disturbed sacred sand. Vulcan. A place he had once called home, believing no other home possible.

Then, touch – his feet sunk ungainly into the sand, perspiration slicked his neck. In his hand, the _ahn-woon_ chafed his skin, knotted and unnaturally heavy in his fist.

He had bitten the inside of his cheek; copper-rich blood coated his tongue, sickly metallic. That was sufficient data for taste.

Next, sound.

 _“Kroykah!”_ T’Pau’s voice drew him sharply into the present. An uncharacteristic urgency entered her voice – a point that elicited some concern.  

As if in response, a sudden, violent pain screamed through his mind. He convulsed, feeling as if his head had been slashed open, an essential piece of himself torn out.

 _The kal-if-fee!_  

Sight.

Spock looked down.

And he could not breathe.

The _ahn-woon_ – heavy he had called it, why hadn’t he realized? – was coiled around Captain Kirk’s neck, the only reason he sat upright at all. His arms hung limp, useless behind his body, providing no more resistance than a child’s inanimate doll.

It was an apt word: inanimate.

The captain was not alive.

Finally, he found his breath. It came in a shuddering gasp.

“Get your hands off of him, Spock!”

The world was a haze, his mind a jumble of questions that were better left unanswered. How — why? There was a burning, screaming gash through his mind, in the place once occupied by sunshine, and friendship, and secret, indecorous feelings. The captain, James T. Kirk, was suspended in his grip, a monument to Spock’s cowardice, to all he had been warned he would become.

 _Jim_.

Now his feelings thrashed in their cages, fracturing the delicate glass of his self-control. He loved him – loved and loved and loved him – and now…

Gone. _Gone…_

“It is finished, outworlder McCoy.” T’Pau rose from her seat, thumped her staff against the dais. “Stand thee back.”  

Distantly, he noticed McCoy was trying to wrestle the _ahn-woon_ from his hands – Spock wondered how long the doctor had been doing so.

He let go of the cord, watched as McCoy lowered Jim to the crushed sand. His hands trembled; yet he could not move to join the doctor, who muttered a dark confirmation of what Spock could feel throbbing in his head.

He dared not think of it, and yet it was all he could think.

Behind him, he felt T’Pau approach.

“Thou hast won the challenge.”

“I understand.” Spock did not recognize his voice, sounding hollow, hopeless even to his own ears. He shut his eyes, forced himself to turn away. “I shall obey the ancient customs.”

“I object to this decision.”

It was Stonn –Spock felt his imperious steps disturb the balance of the sands.

“He has been challenged – he has been rebuffed. He must therefore refuse his claim on the woman. It is tradition that—”

“Spock shall claim as he desires. It is his right.”

Stonn produced a small exhalation – displeasure evident. “I cannot respect the whims of a half-breed against the wisdom of—”

“Be silent.”

The words were not from T’Pau, but rather T’Pring – cold, and sharper than a lirpa’s edge.

“Spock was my betrothed, and therefore of my mind. You insult me. You speak illogically.”

Stonn stepped back, brows rising in apology and protest.

T’Pau turned to Spock, as T’Pring and her lover continued briefly in hushed, heated undertones.

“Does thou wish to claim T’Pring, as is thy champion right?”

Spock looked back, finally, to where T’Pring stood. They regarded each other for a moment; he saw the glimmer of uncertainty in her eyes, contrasted with the firm set of resolution, defiance in her mouth.

“I renounce her. Stonn. She is yours.”

Stonn squared his shoulders. Something in his arrogance, the absence of compassion spoke to the boy Spock had known in his youth, the one who called him unworthy, unfit to stand on the same sands. And perhaps that was so.  

Still, Spock possessed some pride. He met his gaze steadily. “After a time, you may find that having is not so pleasing a thing after all as wanting. It is not logical, but it is often true.”

To a man who had never been challenged, never denied the most trivial whim, it seemed to make no sense. Indeed, Stonn frowned doubtfully.

It was not his duty to educate his peers on the harsher realities. The glimmer in T’Pring’s eyes, and what he knew of her spirit suggested he would learn soon enough.

T’Pau made a dismissive gesture. “It is done.”

Inclining her head, T’Pring retreated, Stonn following dutifully behind her.

Turning to McCoy, T'Pau gestured downward. “Thou may have charge of thy fallen companion.”

“No.” The word left Spock’s mouth without thought. He shook his head, moving to stand over Jim. “No. He is mine.”

“What?” McCoy’s expression scrunched in perplexion, looking up from where he knelt. “Spock, he’s dead. What are you trying to…?”

Amidst the throbbing of his mind, he felt the push of T’Pau’s superior psychical force, a question.

“Explain, Spock.”

“He is not merely my captain.”

He turned, meeting her gaze, knowing his own must appear vastly more human, illogical. Therefore it was necessary to argue his case succinctly.

“He is my friend, I have dishonoured my…” He hesitated, sensing McCoy’s rise to his feet, recognizing what this admission cost him. He switched to Vulcan. “ _Nam-tor ish-veh ashayam t’nash-veh_.”

T’Pau’s fingers moved swiftly to his meld points.

The pain deepened. A whirl of memories flashed past his vision.

_The amber light of the transporter faded, revealing the sturdy form of a human male – the new captain. “I’m James T. Kirk.” He smiled, and Spock felt the same gentle warmth as to embrace his I-Chaya, in Michael’s friendly childhood distractions, in the shelter of his mother’s garden._

_Chess. Invitations to quarters and frivolous games – then, as the months progressed, long and meaningful conversations. “I think of you as a friend, Mr. Spock. Not just another officer.” The Bridge, the routine, the fond familiarity that no other had ever cared to develop._

_I_ _t made him feel – yes, feel – significant._

_The observation deck. Starlight. Hazel eyes. Perhaps they might have kissed – Jim’s fingertips open on the table before him – if Spock had not feared the consequence, the feeling it might arouse. That it had already aroused._

_Then, the Fever – shame – no, think not of Jim, of what will be lost when you –_

_And he lay empty, broken against the burning sand. Jim – beloved of my mind, my katra!_

The temple snapped into focus. The sweat on his back had turned cold, unmindful of the temperate weather.  

“Thou hast withheld the truth.” T’Pau straightened, the evidence of their transference not yet drained from her otherwise inscrutable expression. “The Kirk was not simply thy _ashayam_. Thou hast lost a _t’hy’la_.”

Behind him, Stonn made a sound – a half-started word of objection. T’Pring held out a hand, her eyes widening in startled comprehension.

“I grieve with thee, Spock.”

Spock bowed his head. Their sympathy brought nothing but greater pain. Insubstantial air did more to soothe him than words could.

“Never mind all that.” McCoy took a step closer. “Tee-high-la or not, it’s my right as chief medical officer to—”

“Thy rights are outweighed in this matter.” Slowly, T’Pau inclined her head to Spock. “Thou hast possession of the Kirk.” 

“What!” McCoy looked between them wildly. “He gets—? What?”

Spock merely nodded, and sunk to his knees.

“The challenger remains with his _t’hy’la_. The rest shall depart.”

“Wait, hold on a second, there’s – get your hands off me!” McCoy cried, clearly resisting the temple guards. “Spock, I’ve gotta tell you—!”  

If the sentence had conclusion, he did not hear it.

“Live long and prosper, Spock,” T’Pau said, before sweeping away, followed by the slight mournful jingle of the ritual bells.

He gave a tiny shake of the head. “I shall do neither.”

The air was silent, yet the silence wailed.

Jim lay supine, his body twisted, battered. His captain’s uniform – in which Spock knew he took great pride – was ripped open, blood smearing his chest. In this haphazard sprawl he looked helpless, insignificant. Yet it was not so. This was a man capable of impossible goodness, full to bursting with vitality, determination. Life.

_Life._

The image was jarring. It felt so wrong.   

He was compelled to amend it.

When T’hy’laf, beloved of Surak, was killed, his body brought before the philosopher, Surak did not pursue his murderers.

The Vulcan nobility had not understood. It was customary to destroy that which harmed your _ashayam,_ with as savage reprisal as necessary. Childhood stories still told of those rended in twain by the bereft and grieving, of self-inflicted violence in the face of loss, of the bloody, bloody history that surrounded the death of a Vulcan’s only love.

But Surak, who possessed a love so deep that all others took its name, did nothing.

He sat by his beloved for twenty days and twenty nights. He sang the soft, tearful songs of farewell, asked not for the head of the murderer, but only incense and cool water. With his own hands, like a servant or a child, he cleaned T’hy’laf’s body.

And Spock was of House Surak. 

Slowly, trembling, he moved Jim’s legs to lie straight, his arms from their crumpled, awkward splay to rest gently at his sides.

As Spock tended to him, he softly began to sing.

_“May thou suffer no more. Let thou know nothing but peace, if anything.”_

The words of his ancestor’s lament, now his own, fell from his lips. He brushed the sand from Jim’s uniform. He adjusted his Starfleet insignia, ensuring it lay straight, shining, proud.

_“Forget all that might restrain thee here, for passage from life must be undertaken.”_

From his waist, he untied the purple cloth, tearing a small section from its length. Delicately, he cleaned the line of blood from Jim’s chest, taking care to wrap the unsoiled remainder around the rip in his uniform.

“ _Give thou thy suffering to me. I, who shall suffer twice over for thought of thee. Not to mourn thee should wound me more than perpetual sorrow, perpetual deprivation.”_

For a moment, he hesitated. Then, Spock touched Jim’s cheek, smoothed his hair. Winding an unruly curl through his fingertips, he allowed it to fall across his forehead, as it often did.

He was thinking in present tense, he recognized. Considering Jim’s pride, his feelings, his comfort. Things – a convulsion shuddered through him – that were no longer applicable to the man before him.

Not a man, he corrected. A body.

His lips began to quiver, against his will.

“ _Thou that are precious to me. Thou that has no equal, or substitute. Let these my words impart how others have loved thee – how I…how…”_

He could not go on, the words caught in the searing chasm of emotion contracting his throat.

To continue meant to address the reality – to know that this impossible, brilliant soul had fled, forced out by his own hands, gone forever and Spock could not bear to process such a terrible prospect.  

A wet streak fell across Jim’s face. When Spock moved to clear it, another dropped. And another. And he began to feel it flood down his cheeks.

His fingers passed Jim’s temple. Once, such an act would have brought a flash of dynamic energy, the hum of the mind he had admired, longed after, cherished for years.

But touching his skin, still mockingly warm, he felt nothing at all.  

“ _Jim_.”

Unable to fend off the grief billowing inside, Spock buckled beneath the weight of his heart. He gathered Jim’s lifeless body in his arms, cradling him gently, desperately to his chest.

“Jim, my _t’hy’la_ … forgive me, please, forgive me,” he sobbed in an endless cycle, like a mnemonic, as if he would ever, ever forget. “Captain – oh, Jim!”

Why? Why had it come to this? There was no logic in this conclusion – to anything in his life. Why had he survived so long, against all expectations of his half-breed nature, to find no hope, no joy anywhere? Why allow him the briefest taste of belonging, affection, love (why, why Jim? - better to have perished in the fever, far more merciful than this) to have it trampled upon, murdered by his own hands?

There was no answer – there was nothing to blame but himself.

So he whimpered the contents of his heart into Jim’s unhearing ear, in desperate search of atonement.

He kept no track of time. His hands mapped the curve of Jim’s head, the tangle of his hair with countless caresses. With his lips, he dared place unworthy kisses against his shoulder, reverential, disconsolate. All the while, his mind drummed an incessant beat of agony, of all he had lost – like the ritual call to madness that so many Vulcans had succumbed to before.

Therefore, he could not accurately say how long it was before the little sigh occurred.

Hearing it, he merely shut his eyes to the sound, buried closer into the embrace.

“’pock?”

The name – the _voice_ – made the world freeze. The throbbing in his mind halted.

Spock pulled back, looked down at the man in his arms.

Jim’s eyes were open. Their hazel gaze was dim, disoriented, but not blank.

“Captain,” Spock gasped, mind nearly spinning off its course at the sight.

A tiny smile pulled at Jim’s lips – like first rays of sunlight.

“You’re alive,” he whispered, a hand drifting up to Spock’s face. His brows furrowed slightly. “Why are you crying?”

“ _Jim!_ ”

Protocol called for explanation. Regulation insisted that medical personnel attend to his injuries at once. But for once, Spock thought nothing at all of Starfleet directives.

Jim inhaled sharply through his nose, as Spock’s lips captured his own. He felt Jim’s mouth open beneath his, stunned, and he considered pulling away. Quickly, however, Jim’s fingers gripped his shirt, his arm flung around his shoulders, seizing him with fervent passion.

Then, abruptly, it occurred to Spock that this was a significant shift from their usual conduct.

At once, he reeled back.

“Captain, forgive me, I should not have—”

“Whoa,” Jim breathed, a hand going to his lips. “Did you just—?”

Spock’s cheeks were surely glowing a bright green, and without a sufficient biological excuse.

“I am certain the action was a result of my not being fully recovered from the fever’s demanding emotional burden. I sincerely apologize for the indiscretion.”

“Oh. Yeah, that’s…” Jim cleared his throat, suddenly seeming awkward. “A very logical explanation, of course. Are you alright? You obviously survived the fever.”

“Yes.” Spock swallowed hard, attempting to calm the surge of endorphins raging through his veins, banish the memory of Jim’s lips against his own. “Thanks in great part to you, captain.”

“But what happened? Last thing I remember was the fight and then—”

“Until you awoke, I was under the impression I had killed you.” Against his rigid controls, the demands of his mind grew ever louder. Throwing caution to the wind, Spock blurted, “Captain, if it would not be unwelcome, I find it necessary to contact your mind.”

“Yes.” Jim nodded, appearing eager. “That is, if you think it would help.”

Spock’s fingers sought his meld points, and a rush of relief swept him at the frission of thought that met the touch.

He saw the _kal-if-fee_ , felt Jim’s fear. McCoy’s approach, the hypodermic – _a tri ox compound; simulated death!_

Like cell bodies rushing to repair a wound, the golden strands of Jim’s mind hastened to fill the aching gaps in Spock’s consciousness, mend all that had been briefly destroyed.

 _Warm. Beautiful. Alive._    

Spock eased out of full mental contact, but allowed his touch to linger, basking in the pleasantly obvious indications of Jim’s breath, his pulse, his life.

“The moment I discovered you had perished, the fever broke. Evidently, neither my biological functions, nor my mind could withstand the despair of your loss.”

Jim frowned, clearly confused. “But the ritual—”

“Is finished.” Spock found it impossible to refrain from contact, cupping his cheek with one hand. “There will be no need to linger in this place once you have recovered.”

As his fingers traced the curve of his face, Jim’s eyes fluttered closed, he leaned into the hollow of Spock’s hand. Almost as if he enjoyed the sensation– as if…

Then, with a start, Jim flinched away.

“No! Uh, wait.”

Spock withdrew at once, hurriedly remembering that this was entirely against regulation.

Jim ran a hand through his hair, seeming to try to right himself. “We can’t…I mean, not any…You’re _married_ , Spock, after all.”

“Ah.” He had forgotten entirely about T’Pring. Spock shook his head. “No, Jim, I am not. Upon overcoming the fever, I renounced my bond with her, as is customary. Though her initial rejection of our union by declaring the challenge effectively forced such an outcome.”

“Oh.” A measure of sympathy entered Jim’s expression. He moved to touch Spock’s arm, a familiar comforting gesture. “Spock, I’m sorry.”

“Do not be. I possessed no desire to marry T’Pring outside the obvious biological impetus. To have both survived _pon farr_ and relinquished my bond with her is a most agreeable result.”

Jim produced a small huff, perhaps of laughter.

“I still probably owe you an apology.”

Spock tilted his head. “For what would you apologize?”

“Spock.” The hazel eyes softened. Jim brought his hand to his cheek, brushed the film of tears that lingered there with his thumb. “I know what my death did to you. I could feel it – I still feel it. I’m here, Spock. I’m with you.” His hand gripped the back of his neck. “I’m not leaving you.”

“There is no need to concern yourself, captain.” Spock allowed a small smile. “You are alive. I am therefore most content.”

“No, that’s not—I felt the same way as you when Bones said you were dying, when your wife declared the challenge. I thought I was going to lose you. I care about you, Spock.” Jim shook his head. “God, why am I so afraid to say it? It’s more than just caring, I—”

“Jim!”

Both men turned. Doctor McCoy was hurrying across the sand, being pursued by greatly distressed guards, and a severe-looking T’Pau a few feet behind.

At once, Spock rose to his feet, Jim matching him quickly.

The doctor turned back, gesturing wildly to the captain.

“See! See! He’s alive! It was a tri ox compound! He’s alive, like I said, so you can call off your attack dogs now!”

Seeing them – more specifically Jim, the guards ceased their chase. They looked to each other, and then to T’Pau, who strode forward to observe the matter. Her lips pursed, as she scrutinized the very much alive man at Spock’s side.

“Spock. Kirk does live. What is thy explanation?”

“If you’ll pardon me, ma’am.” Jim shifted closer to Spock, eyeing the guards as if they might drag him away. “Doctor McCoy is telling you the truth. He gave me the tranquilizer to save my life.”

“It would seem the only possible reason for his survival,” Spock concurred. “The doctor has a noted tendency to prioritize the safety of the crew over regulation or tradition.”

“Damn right. Uh, darn right.” McCoy amended hastily, seeming to remember the venerable individual to whom he spoke.

T’Pau pulled the fabric of her robe taut, surveying the three sternly.

“It has never before occurred that both challengers survive the _kal-if-fee_. Nor is it customary for challengers to be _t’hy’lara_.”    

“If I may submit a logical recourse.” Spock inclined his head, respectfully. “I have satisfied the challenge by disarming and rendering my opponent inert. My _t’hy’la_ thrives. I therefore submit that no further action should be taken, upon either of us.”

T’Pau considered for a moment, then planted her staff firmly in the earth.

“It is logical, and on such a term, accepted. I trust thou shalt arrange thy subsequent transportation?”

The pronouncement was highly relieving. Indeed, at his side, Jim sighed in the exaggerated human idiosyncrasy that suggested a positive resolution.

“I’ve got it covered,” Doctor McCoy said with a grin, flipping open his communicator.

T’Pau discharged the guards with a gesture, but did not turn to leave.

“The matter is well finished. Shall I inform thy parents, Spock, of the marriage?”

Spock blinked, turned his head. “I do not understand. I have formally renounced T’Pring.”

A small sniff indicated she found his answer mere verbiage.

“Thou and Kirk lay in the sacred sands, combat notwithstanding. Thou art _t’hy’laras_. By all the ancient laws, thou art wed.”

All three officers started simultaneously.

McCoy spluttered. “What!”

“Wed?” Jim’s voice was an octave higher than usual. “You mean Spock’s my—?!”

“But we did not—”

“It is final. Farewell.”

Then, before either man could comprehend the development, they were caught in amber light.

Materializing on the Enterprise, it took them a second to realize where they were.

“Welcome back, gentlemen!” Mr. Scott cried, with far too much cheer for the circumstances.

McCoy made a few incomprehensible sounds of perturbation, while Spock and Jim, who still had a hand on his lower back, shared a look of agitation.

Quickly, Spock retreated from his touch.

“Captain, I assure you that it was never my intention to—”

“No, of course, Mr. Spock.” Jim’s hands darted behind his back, his smile was forced, sheepish. “I’d never expect…um, I’m sure you know what I mean.”

At their lack of returned enthusiasm, Engineer Scott frowned. “Nothing went wrong, did it?”

“Hmph.” McCoy rolled his eyes emphatically. “It didn’t exactly go right.”

“It…” Spock was not sure how to characterize the day. “The events on Vulcan—”

“Went fine.”

He looked to Jim, who had spoken. The captain swiped his hand through the air, indicating he didn’t wish to discuss it further.

“Mr. Spock is feeling much better, and we’ll be able to warp out of here presently.”

“Oh.” The engineer nodded, satisfied with the answer. “I’m glad to hear that’s the case.”

With a glance at the captain, Spock stepped off the platform. Perhaps Jim simply wished to disregard their marital status. Vulcan law, after all, was not binding to outworlders. Or perhaps he required time to process, to determine the proper course of action.

That was something Spock could deeply understand, and appreciate.

Still, as they approached the door, Mr. Scott pivoted sharply, blocking their exit.

“I almost forgot! Congratulations on your marriage, Mr. Spock!" Mr. Scott winked roguishly. "I’m sure she’s the luckiest girl on Vulcan.”

An innocent remark – but one that set Spock’s cheeks ablaze.

McCoy smirked, far too smug. “Oh, yeah, _she’s_ over the moon, eh, Jimbo?”

“That’s enough lip from you, doctor.”

The tone – one of Jim’s most assertive, and unfriendly – made the grins on McCoy and Scott’s faces vanish. 

“Gentlemen, I expect we’ll need to go over preparations for next month’s transfers. Have your suggestions ready for tomorrow at 1600 hours. You’re dismissed.”

“Yes, sir.” They sharing a concerned glance, but obeyed, hastening down the hall.

As they rounded the corner, the tension noticeably dropped from Jim’s shoulders.

“Captain,” Spock said, careful and steady. “Would it be prudent to discuss how we should proceed with our new…partnership?”

A rush of air preceded Jim’s next, not quite sincere enough to qualify as laughter.

“Conference room?”

“If you wish.”

They walked in silence. It was one minute and forty seconds in travel time, a period that they had easily and often spent in silence in other circumstances, even enjoyed. Yet, for whatever reason, this instance seemed interminably long.

When they arrived, Spock positioned himself at the far end of the conference table; Jim by the door. They hesitated for a moment, seeming uncertain of how to begin.

“I’m sorry.”

Jim spoke first. The steely edge had left his voice, now quiet, defeated.

Spock shook his head. “You are not to blame, sir.”

“Ye—” He abandoned the word. Perhaps he knew it would only bring fruitless argument. He ran a hand over his brow. “What’s a _t’hy’la_? That’s what T’Pau seemed to think was most important. Why does that matter so much?”

“It is a type of interpersonal bond between males. Extremely rare, and therefore highly privileged.” Spock wet his lips. “While it is applicable to our relationship, it is not entirely accurate.”

His eyes narrowed. “How so?”

“There is no single translation for _t’hy’la_ in Standard. It is best described as a combination of three unique relationships. It is friendship, and brotherhood simultaneously.”

Jim caught the omission. “What’s the third?”

Nerves crawled up the back of Spock’s throat. How often had he withheld this information, knowledge he had possessed almost from the very first? He had spent years in silent pain, knowing it meant transfer off the Enterprise, separation from the one being in the universe with whom he felt complete, content, wanted – only to have it ripped from him by necessity’s cruel hand.  

“Spock.” Jim rounded the table’s edge, took a step closer. There was determination in his hazel eyes. Beautiful eyes. “What’s the third translation?”

He lowered his gaze to the floor. So be it.

“Lover.”

Across the room, Jim inhaled sharply – Spock dared not look at the mortification, the horror that must be marring his features.

“ _Lover_ ,” he heard him echo, softly.

“You see the dilemma, obviously. While we have shared a bond of friendship, brotherhood, we have not met this requirement. That is to say, neither of us has engaged in the necessary behaviours to qualify ourselves as lovers.”

Spock folded his hands neatly behind his back. It was essentially to be thorough – he would not suffer the pain of a delayed rejection.

“The question would then emerge as to how we could be interpreted as such. Our bond, as with all bonds, is centred in our minds, our thoughts. Therefore, our classification as lovers must come from these thoughts.”  

He wet his lips, knowing these next words would damn him forever.

“There is only one logical explanation. Our minds project us as lovers because that is precisely what one of us imagines we are.”

“Oh, God!”

In his peripheral, he saw Jim stagger into the conference table, throw a hand upon its surface for support.

Spock shifted on his feet. He had anticipated rejection, but not revulsion.

“I am certain you have drawn the obvious conclusion,” he said, attempting to mask the considerable anguish Jim’s disgust caused him.

“Spock.” His voice was oddly distressed, strangely despairing. “Oh, Spock, it’s all my fault. I’m so sorry.”

He glanced up. Jim’s hands were in fists, pressed to his forehead.

“I do not understand.”

“Don’t you?” As Jim lowered his hands, he could see the shine of unshed tears in his eyes. It drew him forward, to his side. “We’re bound together because our minds, because one of us can’t help but think of the other as a lover, as a romantic partner. And I—”

Jim turned away suddenly. His posture was unnaturally stiff – an attempt, Spock realized, to appear emotionally unaffected.

“I’m the reason, Spock.” His voice quavered. “It’s my mind that’s corrupted, not yours. I don’t just think of you as a friend, or a brother, or even as an officer, like I damn well should. I…I just think of you. I want you. I…”

In his side, Spock’s heart thrummed faster than even in the heat of battle. As Jim spoke, it took effort to remind himself that this was, in fact, reality, and not a wild, frivolous fantasy of the mind.

“Captain,” he murmured, and heard the longing in the word. He did not care.

“I love you.” Now it was Jim looking at the floor, anxiously winding his hands together. “Please don’t apply for a transfer. It hasn’t affected our duty to the ship, and I won’t let it. I’ll leave you well enough alone, if that’s what you want. I’ll put you on beta shift. I’ll—”

Jim stopped. The brief glance he gave him morphed into a double take, hazel eyes locking into what Spock knew must be unfamiliarly emotional ones.

“Jim.”

A light pink entered Jim’s face, he blinked several times.

“You…” A tiny, hopeful smile broke across his lips. “Really?”

“My _t’hy’la_.”

They surged together in a kiss, Jim flinging his arms around Spock’s neck with abandon. Spock, in turn, pulled him tightly into an embrace, hands moving up Jim’s back, shoulder blades.

“Oh, Spock,” Jim said huskily, in the brief interval between one kiss and the next. He laughed into his lips. “I hope you aren’t insulted, but this a very pleasant surprise.”

“I share the sentiment, captain.”

“Captain?”

Jim pulled back, a bemused grin on his face.

“That’s a lousy thing to call your new husband, isn’t it?”

The reminder sent a flush of warmth across his face. Spock retracted his hands from around Jim’s torso.

“Oh.” Jim seemed to see the change – his smile faltered, his let go of Spock’s shoulders. “I'm sorry. You can call me whatever you want, if husband doesn't...”

“I do not take offense at the title. It is, of course, accurate. I simply find it difficult to accept.”

Jim nodded, glancing down. “Of course. It is…strange to think about. I’m not used to it either.” A little laugh escaped him. “Starfleet’ll lose it when we apply for a divorce.”

“I do not…” Spock did not finish, unsure if he agreed with his impulse.

"You don't want one?"

Jim did not push any further than that, simply observed him closely as he gathered his thoughts.

“If it is your wish to divorce me, I would not oppose. In fact, it is likely the most logical choice, as we have never tested our romantic compatibility.”

Jim slid his hand down his arm, pausing before his hand. “Logical, perhaps. But preferable?”

Spock hummed. The captain knew him too well.

“The prospect of fulfilling your spousal needs is somewhat…overwhelming, but not undesirable.” Cautiously, Spock accepted Jim’s touch, letting his fingertips trace the patterns into his palm that he had imagined many times in secret. “I am also in love with you. I cannot be dissatisfied with the idea that you are my partner. However, I had imagined we would have a period of courtship in which to grow accustomed to one another – though until today I considered even that prospect highly unlikely.”

“So did I.” Jim chuckled softly. “We’ve gone about the whole thing backwards.”

“Indeed.”

Jim turned his head to the side, glancing down to where their hands were entwined. Carefully his fingers moved against Spock’s, sending delicate caresses along his capillaries.

“I don’t expect you to jump into this too quickly. Hell, we don’t even have to tell Bones that we’re going through with it, never mind Starfleet, if you want.”

Spock resisted a smile at that. Jim gave his hands a short, assuring squeeze.

“But I love you, Spock. I’ve loved you for a long time. And even if we don’t ever declare it publicly, or have the documents, nothing would make me happier than to be your husband.”

Looking into Jim’s eyes, feeling the warm press of thought at the back of his mind, Spock knew that to be accurate.

Lifting their hands to his lips, he placed a Terran kiss against Jim’s fingertips.

“Then I am yours, Jim. Always. ”

The hazel eyes shone, Jim’s lips parted in wonder, joy.

“Spock,” he breathed.

“ _Ashayam_.”

Though his observations were perhaps not to the scientific standard, Spock was swiftly coming to conclusion that the quality of each successive kiss with Jim only improved.

It would be necessary, he thought, watching Jim’s glorious smile unfurl as he pulled back, to conduct further research into the matter. Extensive, in fact.

“I don’t mean to interrupt, Mr. Spock.” Jim’s voice was rough, slightly out of breath, which was highly attractive to say the least. “But it is, after all, our wedding night.”

Spock felt his brow lift. “Have you made arrangements, captain?”

“No.” Beneath him, an arching, playful smirk spread across Jim’s lips. “But I’m sure we could find some way to occupy ourselves.”

And that, Spock considered, was entirely possible.

**Author's Note:**

> Translation:  
> Nam-tor ish-veh ashayam t’nash-veh: He is my ashayam
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! Wanted to try my hand at good old fashioned angst - but couldn't bring myself to leave them in too much pain. 
> 
> Let me know your thoughts in kudos/comments, or at my Tumblr: fictionandtheatre.tumblr.com

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Falling To Pieces](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20992979) by [fiveainley_ohmy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiveainley_ohmy/pseuds/fiveainley_ohmy)




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